Page 78 of Perfect Praise

“Like Locke would do that for just anybody,” she says, amused.

I laugh uncomfortably. “Don’t believe everything you read.”

…or see with your own two eyes?

Jesus. Stop talking.

There are pictures of us kissing—what the hell must they think about me? I can only imagine the comments under those pictures. It’s not the internet strangers’ opinions I care about though. I care about what Locke’s family thinks of me. Do they think I’m a gold digger? A groupie? And why do I suddenly care?

Blake guffaws, but Conrad rubs his hand over his mouth like he’s rethinking what he said.

Elise is silently kissing the top of Emmie’s head, who is babbling incoherently, while she peers at me like I’m the Mona Lisa and she can’t quite find my eye line.

I’m not sure where to look myself. They’re all smiling at me like I’m God’s gift to Locke, so I just shove my face into the camera to cover the embarrassment taking over my cheeks.

They pose for me, but I already know I’ll love the ones where they’re passing Emmie around, kissing her, laughing when she drools the most.

I wish Locke was here so I could capture his dimples.

No, no I don’t, I tell myself.

When we’re done, I smile from ear to ear. I’m already itching to get back to my computer and start editing these.

Instead, I corner Conrad before he can make his way inside. “Whatever he said,” I start with a deep breath, “or told you…” I will the blush to stay away, which only deepens it faster, more intensely.

Conrad studies me for a beat. “He hasn’t told me anything. Locke isn’t like that.”

My heart slows, but Conrad keeps watching me with a serious upward curve of an eyebrow, like every twitch I make makes him more and more curious about me.

Just as I’m about to retort, he cuts me off.

“My guess is he hasn’t figured it out himself yet either. Just so you know.”

He disappears through the door before I can ask him what the hell that means, so I turn on my heel, more confused than ever. But all I want to do is lie in my bed with my laptop and make these photos even more gorgeous.

I follow the path through the palm trees slowly, flipping through my camera. When I make the last curve, I look up to see Locke lining up a putt on the hole in front of his guest house.

He’s concentrating so much that he didn’t hear my footsteps. I stand completely still as he crouches and studies the twelve-foot gap between him and the hole. He’s probably played this six-hole course a thousand times, and yet he’s still taking three practice swings and crouching again.

When he finally steps up for his actual putt, on instinct, I raise my camera and take a picture of him.

Locke snaps his head in my direction just as his club taps the ball.

I gasp under my breath. Hecanhear my shutter.

But Locke doesn’t look mad. A smile radiates across his face, dimples pinching his cheeks, and he doesn’t even look to see if his ball rolled into the hole.

Is it possible that hedoeslike me?

“Hey,” he says, letting his golf club fall to the ground before walking toward me.

My nervous system ticks up, blood speeding through my veins. My stomach loops. My heart squeezes.

Fuck.

That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen—him dropping his club like he doesn’t have a care in the world besides me.

And double fuck, Idefinitelylike him.

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